Flipside
by SassyJ
Summary: And the flipside of hate is....? Jo's teasing gives Phil a new perspective


It was all Jo's fault. From the moment she started talking about the flipside of love, and how all that testosterone was just looking for somewhere to go, for some really weird reason I had been unable to take my eyes off Stuart Turner.

We hated each other. That was the truth. He'd muscled in on Samantha, knocked her up, hurt her and deserted her.

He'd come between us. After him, it was never the same, and Sam dumped me a few weeks later.

I hated him. We'd even come to blows. It was the accepted order of things that Phil Hunter and Stuart Turner hated each other.

So Jo's teasing was way off-beam. It was.

I glanced across the room at the profile of my enemy. He was bent over his keyboard, typing something. I watched those tanned fingers dance deftly across the keys, noting with considerable irritation that he was a better typist than me. I narrowed my eyes and studied his profile carefully, noting the high cheekbones, the determined set of his head, the strong jaw, the slightly Roman nose, the long spiky black lashes framing brown eyes, which seemed permanently narrowed with suspicion when focussing on me.

I was interrupted in my reverie by DCI Meadows marching through. "Phil, Stuart...briefing room, now." He jerked his thumb towards it. "Jo, Stevie, Terry, Grace." All around me, people were putting down whatever they were doing and heading for briefing. When I got to my feet, Stuart's fingers were still dancing over the keys, and I watched as his hand snaked out and grasped the mouse.

_DAMN_, the number that Jo had done on my head was driving me crazy. I watched the muscles of Stuart's right forearm ripple beneath the tanned skin as his index finger bounced on the left mouse key.

He stood up, and gave me a funny look; to cover my confusion and irritation I swept a short mocking bow to indicate that he should go first. Those dark eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he moved ahead of me into the briefing room.

"So glad you could join us." We'd been too slow to respond, and the lovely Samantha was wearing that frosty expression again. The one which could freeze the blood in my veins. I tried to look contrite, not wholly successfully, because I'd just noticed that the only place left in the room for me to sit was slap next to Stuart Turner. Right up _against_ Stuart Turner. We might even touch.

"When you're ready." Sam's icy voice brushed over me like a sprinkling of cold water and I moved. No use drawing any more attention to myself than I already had, noting the suppressed smirks from some of the younger uniform.

I perched awkwardly next to Stuart, who shot me another of those narrow-eyed stares. I couldn't help noticing that whilst Sam's icy blues were perfectly made for cold hard stares, the warm shades of brown and amber of Stuart's offered more of a caress.

_WTF?_

I tried not to consider the implications of that particular thought. Which was when I caught Jo's eye, and the half smile on her face. I scowled and sat back. My shoulder brushed against Stuart's.

I am absolutely not interested in my own sex. I never have been. But I am also a realist; I know that I am a sex addict. I get into it and my libido takes over. There have been moments when this has caused me considerable pain. Usually when I'm caught doing something that even I know is really stupid.

My shoulder came to rest against the firm muscles of Stuart's shoulder. And that was it. My libido was rising like a salmon up a waterfall. I wanted Stuart. Now this was really stupid. He hated my guts. I hated his guts. That was the natural order of things.

Hating Stuart Turner's guts notwithstanding, I wanted his body. Sam was droning on. Now, don't get me wrong, she's smart, she knows what she's talking about, but she can't half bang on about one of her pet subjects and when she has a captive audience, there is no stopping her. I tried to tune in. I tried to ignore Stuart's shoulder and arm pressing against mine. I tried very hard not to look down. He was back to his tee shirt and tank top, the thin grey marl material of the tee taut over his shoulders, the khaki tank top a fine contrast to his tanned skin. He crossed his arms, and I glanced down at the powerful bicep rippling just below the short sleeve of the tee...and wondered what it would be like to get up close and personal with him.

I needed out of there, quickly. Sam was winding up, looking around the room and issuing assignments. "Stuart and Phil."

_Hell_. She was kidding. She had to be kidding.

She wasn't kidding. I shot a quick look in Stuart's direction. He didn't look any happier than I felt. I thought about protesting, but that would have looked really stupid, as though I couldn't handle it. The very last thing I needed just then was to appear weak in front of senior management. The punch up between me and Stuart hadn't done much for our credibility, and I was still feeling vulnerable. Jack Meadows wouldn't need prompting, and I really didn't fancy going back on the beat again.

Stuart got to his feet and headed back to his desk. I stopped foot-dragging and pouting like a six-year old. If he could suck it up and be professional, then so could I.

Three hours later, I wasn't so sure. We'd hit the streets, working our way back through the list we'd been given.

Now normally, Stuart Turner has the gift of the gab. He never shuts up. He has an opinion on everything and something to say for himself at every turn.

This time? I'm partnered with a clam. He's taciturn to the point of not uttering a word in twenty minutes. If that's how he's going to be, fine. I can shut up, too.

I'm sitting there in the passenger seat. From time to time I can sense his eyes on me. I daren't check to see what he's looking at in case he catches me looking. The stupidity of the situation hits me. We're sitting there, not communicating, not looking at each other, yet we're totally aware of each other.

When the shout comes in on the radio that we're needed at the meat-processing plant, it's a relief. We would be with the rest of the team, and we could go back to ignoring each other. No harm, no foul.

We had the back door, in through the frozen carcasses hanging from hooks. If I wasn't already a vegetarian, I would have changed on the spot. Stuart was slightly behind me as we pushed our way through. I could hear shouts in the distance up ahead, so I slowed up. Stuart barged past me, eager for the collar, hell-bent to get there first. Which was when it happened. He pushed past me and the last hanging carcass and ran straight into our mark coming the other way. Our mark was not unprepared; he was swinging something which looked like a leg of lamb.

It connected hard with Stuart's left cheekbone, snapping his head round. His momentum, the slippery floor and the energy of the punch did the rest, lifting him clean off his feet and dropping him hard against the wall.

I grabbed the mark, he fought back, and then uniform were all over us. I handed off to Callum Stone and turned my attention to Stuart.

He was half sitting, half lying against the wall. His hand up to his face, he looked a bit dazed and disorientated. "Mate." I crouched down in front of him. This was genuine concern I was offering him, but he pushed my hand away and attempted to get to his feet. He sort of made it by clutching the wall for support. I backed off. If the ungrateful so and so didn't want my help, I wasn't about to give it.

Sam appeared, looked at Stuart and ordered me to get him back to the station, and told Stuart to get his head looked at by the FME. Then she dismissed us both with a sniff.

Stuart was quiet all the way back to the station. We were glancing at each other again. Back to square one. He got himself checked out, was issued with an icepack to take the heat out of the swelling. Then he spent the final two hours of the day at his desk. Typing.

Still we were glancing at each other. Every so often, I would look sideways at him, and he would be typing as though his life depended on it. But I knew. Those dark eyes were watching me.

This itch was becoming more and more frustrating. A tiny corner of my mind was in denial, the rest of me was achingly aware of the man next to me. Every so often I would look up and catch Jo looking at both of us. Her face said it all.

Finally, it was the end of shift. I was tired, keeping anything straight in my head nigh on impossible. I got to my feet. Stuart was still typing. I looked down at the brown fingers dancing over the keys, caught the vaguest hint of a tremble and suddenly it all fell into place. I looked across at Jo. Her smile was the perfect picture of innocence with just the tiniest hint of mischief.

_DAMMIT_. I had to resolve this or we were going to go on like this forever, and it was driving me crazy now.

The room was mostly empty, the banter about the Seven Bells and Manson letting some moths out of his wallet still drifting back from the landing, when I shrugged off Terry's suggestion that I join them. Stuart had brushed off all attempts to get him to the pub.

As the swinging door closes behind Jo, the last to leave, with a smile on her lips; I look down at Stuart. "I can't face the pub. Fancy joining me at my place for a Chinese?"

"Make it an Indian?" His voice is low, slightly grumpy, and he doesn't quite meet my eye.

"Indian," I confirm. We don't comment on any of this; he gets to his feet, shrugs into his jacket (with a little difficulty, I notice) and follows me.

I'd caught a bus in, so we take Stuart's car, swing by the Indian, and make it back to my place with a couple of packs of Cobra to wash it all down.

Even as we enter my flat, we're still not communicating; the glances are coming thick and fast, and I realise that neither of us has a clue how to proceed. Even if we wanted to.

I take the cartons into the kitchen and start to lay it out. "Make yourself comfortable." I pass him a beer. Our fingers don't touch. He takes the beer, and shrugs out of his jacket. The same difficulty, this time a small moan escaping his lips.

I look up. "Mate."

"I ache." He admits. "Mostly where I fell."

"Why don't you have a shower?" The words are out of my mouth before I realise it. "It won't do a lot, but it might warm things up a bit."

Those dark eyes look at me, still a hint of suspicion in their depths. Then he nods.

He's been in the bathroom a whole three minutes before I realise that I haven't given him any idea where the clean towels are. I put the food aside to keep warm, and fish a bathsheet out of the airing cupboard.

He's in the shower when I enter. His back is towards me, I can see bruises on his right shoulder extending down his back, over his ribs. They look painful. Striking that wall must have hurt. My hand stretches out to caress the bruises, as he turns around.

We're looking at each other. My hand stretched out towards him, he steps towards me, out of the falling water, soaked, his black hair plastered to his head; I step forward and my arm curves gently round him. He's slightly shorter than me, he tilts his face up. Our lips meet.

In that nano-second before my eyes close, and my entire being concentrates on kissing him, I see the blaze of emotion in his eyes. Whatever this is. We both want it.

He's pressed against me. His body soaking my clothes. And now I know how it feels to be holding Stuart Turner up close and personal against me. My underwear is uncomfortably tight. I want him.

My clothes are only a mild inconvenience. I shed them on the way to the bedroom. I push the duvet roughly aside and fall back on my bed, my grasp on Stu's right wrist, tumbling him down on top of me. Our hands are everywhere as we arouse each other.

I woke to the comfortable warm sensation of being cuddled up to another body. Fingers laced themselves through the short hair on the back of my neck. I eased back a little so I could focus.

"Morning."

I tried to make sense of Stuart's slightly flat tone. "Morning, mate."

He shifted a little. "I'm not gay."

I snorted. "Well, neither am I," I took a deep breath, as I was risking a lot here. "But I'm not sorry that we did what we did."

There was a distinct flash of relief in his eyes.

If he was confused, well, then that made two of us. It made no difference because there was one thing I was certain of: I still wanted him. I slid my hand down from its resting place on his hip, and his response was to pull me closer.

Our lips met and we explored each other slowly. This time it was a lot more controlled; we wanted and needed each other, but we wanted to savour it. I sought out his sensitive places and he moaned and writhed beneath me.

We made wild, passionate love... and it was even better than the first time.

A pattern developed. We grouched our way through the days on shift, like a couple of yard dogs scrapping over a bone and spent our nights exciting each other. We're not gay, but I look back over my relationships with women and realise that my secret relationship with Stuart Turner...

_WHOA...relationship? Is that what this is?_ Honestly, I don't know.

I am sure that Jo knows something. From time to time I catch her looking at me, or looking at Stuart. I'm playing it as cool as I can. Right now, my credibility was running a little thin. Sam dumped me, and I'd had a few recent problems with the usual consequences of a pretty face and a great body.

I had no idea where this was going, but had no wish to bring it to an end either.


End file.
